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October again. The cottonwoods are gold. The mountains have their first snow. The pumpkin patch is bursting, rows of orange stretching toward the orchard where the Winesaps are heavy and red. The cider press has been running since Monday.

A year. Twelve months since I fell off a stack of crates and into a life I didn't know I was looking for.

The magazine feature published in September. "One Farm, Four Seasons: A Year on Connors Farm." Twelve pages, full spread, Diane's letter at the front calling it "the most intimate portrait of American agricultural life we've published in a decade." The spring photos got the cover. Deck's hands in the soil, planting. The summer issue ran the cattle in the east field, backlit, fog burning off at dawn. Fall was the pumpkin patch, obviously. Winter was my favorite. The farm buried in snow, smoke rising from the chimney, the orchard stripped bare. One frame through the kitchen window: Deck at the table, coffee, morning light. His hands wrapped around the mug. The photograph that made me cry when I developed it because it was the exact moment I realized I'd stopped looking.

We got married in June. On the porch, because where else. Maggie catered. Hilda brought champagne and wept into a cloth napkin she'd brought specifically for the purpose. His mother flew from Arizona and didn't stop hugging me for three straight days. His dad shook my hand once, firm, nodded, and said "She'll do." My mom came from Oakland with two suitcases and a cooler full of pelau she'd made on a portable burner during her layover in Denver because she didn't trust Montana to have the right peppers.

She was right. Montana doesn't have the right peppers. I grow them now, in the greenhouse Deck built behind the kitchen. Scotch bonnets, habaneros, serranos. They thrive. Everything thrives here.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.

Mom:

How are you feeling today baby girl?

Me:

Fine. Tired. Festival's tomorrow.

Mom:

Tired because of the festival? Or tired because of what you told me on Tuesday?

Me:

Mom.

Mom:

I'm just asking! Have you told him yet?

Me:

Tonight.

Mom:

TONIGHT? Poppy Christine Connors you've been sitting on this for four days???

Me:

I wanted to be sure. The doctor confirmed it this morning.

Mom:

I'm going to be a grandmother. I'm going to be a GRANDMOTHER. I'm calling your aunt. I'm calling everybody.

Me:

Don't call anybody yet! I haven't told Deck!

Mom:

Then GET OFF YOUR PHONE AND GO TELL THAT MAN

Six weeks. The doctor in town confirmed it this morning after the blood work came back. Six weeks along, everything healthy, due in June. June. The same month we got married. The symmetry makes my chest ache.

The test itself happened Tuesday. Standing in our bathroom at five in the morning while Deck was in the barn doing the feed, staring at two pink lines on a stick I bought from Hilda's general store, which means Hilda knows. Hilda knowing means Maggie knows. Maggie knowing means the entire town knows, minus one person. The most important one.